


Athelas

by Vulgarweed



Category: Lord of the Rings - Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Het, Porn Battle, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-16
Updated: 2010-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-06 08:54:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite the chill, Éowyn and Faramir endure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Athelas

The flowers that bloom in early spring in Ithilien are pale and tentative, yet brave. They bloom from bones, and their viney roots wind up the walls in uncertain hope, waiting for the hammer of dark winter to drop upon them again.

Emyn Arnen is a lovely place, but a sad one. Its healing hills are within sight of Minas Tirith, which grieves for its sister citadel—had long reached out for her in the bitter watches of the night, even when she was called Minas Morgul and no wholesome light shone from her peak.

The Prince of Ithilien is caught in between, and sometimes when he dreams, he wanders unhallowed halls and hears the tormented screams of mortal kings, for his line sat for centuries beneath the throne of one who would not return. So easily it could have been he or his, lying in chains beneath dark wings of unreasoning terror, his flesh shriveled away and his mind left naked and unable to die beneath the bone hands of a terrible King.

But when he walked down those halls, he had been called back—by sweet scented-herbs, by a voice as strong and fresh as a summer wind over clean grass, by the touch of a very different hand, sure and warm and tingling, stirring his brackish blood and calling his body back to life. All too well – Faramir cries out in his sleep at the memory and the terrible physical desire it evokes, wracked by a thrusting need.

He catches his wife by his side--reluctant to disturb her rest, but Éowyn has been whimpering in her sleep too, and the arm of hers that was pinned beneath him has gone limp and cold. It is not the arm that was broken that still bothers her, these years gone. It is the other, the one that nearly died itself. She moans softly and reaches out with her good one as he rolls onto her, sliding in the cold sweat of his back; they press together, mad for the feel of human heartbeats in the pre-dawn chill.

“I dreamed of him,” she whispers, and Faramir says, “I too,” and neither are sure which _him_ they mean; killer or healer, king of the living or the fell undead; for the cloaks of both have wrapped them. Nevertheless, when the dreams return, so does the Shieldmaiden. She has teeth that bite; her thighs are horseback strong and her hand on his hard staff of flesh is sword-grip sure.

He had once feared to touch her in any way but the most gentle, his fingers upon her white breasts with an eager reverence, and her sinews uncoiled like a young colt’s and she threw him down and mounted him with the grasping strength of one who once wanted nothing more than to ride towards death at breakneck speed. Even now, where he strokes her wetness between her thighs, there is heat, but at the edges of her curves is a coolness in her pale flesh that she works to banish, drawing him deep within her with muscles and a fierce one-handed grasp upon his arse until her other arm wakes again, and with that she outlines the muscles of his belly, pinches his nipples, scrabbles furiously to awaken every part of him to her, and of herself to him.

She cries out. Nay, to be fair, she screams, the sound swallowed in the damp of his hair as he strains against her, and this they both know: as sure as they both wanted to lie like this with the warm King who bade them both live, they both still feel the touch of the vanquished one who infected them with death. It is in defiance of both they endure, in this animal need, and the dreams give them to doubt whose command was the more terrible.


End file.
